New Arrival
by Admiral Trouser
Summary: This will be my first dalliance with both Morrowind and fanfiction.net, so be kind to me. This is an old short-story I did a while back, but I'm thinking of furthering it into a fully-fledged chronicle, bringing in people from the Morrowind setting more f
1. New Arrival, Introduction

The tavern hummed its usual merry discord, a drunken harmony that more often than not could be heard throughout the small fishing village of Mar Salem for well into the early hours of the morning, as her patrons drank, talked and made merry before the sun rose, bringing with it a new days labour. The people were poor. Life was hard. Most of the time, a good ale was all they had to look forward to.  
  
And so the people of Mar Salem drank well, oblivious to the world around them save what news passing traders and the weary adventurer brought with them. Bits of this, bits of that, snippets of the bigger picture bought with an ale or two before they passed on, usually to the North where the Ashlands lied, "onwards to darker skies", so the local saying said. Some came back with further news of the outside, or tall tales of lost tombs and ancient beasts slain at last. Some didn't come back at all, however.  
  
This night was no different: Locals chattered with there visitors, most of them guests, some of them regulars and hardened travellers at that, and the tavern was alive with talk, as par usual. The world, it seemed, was well.  
  
But it wasn't. Not at all.  
  
Slowly, through the closed curtains of the tavern's two windows, a light shone through, weak and pale at first, but steadily growing stronger. Those nearest them noticed it first, but paid it little attention. A passing silt strider, for sure, they thought. They came and went every now and again. Nothing to get fussed over with. But the light continued grow stronger.  
  
No, not stronger....closer. It was getting closer.  
  
By the time the majority of the patrons had worked this out, beams of light were shining through every crack and orifice in the door wall, cutting a path through the smoke and dust, giving them the illusion that they had substance and making the whole spectacle that bit more alien. The tavern suddenly went very, very quiet. Everyone listened, hard. Only silence and light prevailed.  
  
Finally, with the door wall now completely illuminated, faint footsteps could be heard. The silence was shredded apart as twenty weapons were unsheathed almost in unison, and everyone prepared themselves for what seemed to be the inevitable conflict. Something heavy gripped the door. It shuddered, creaked on its hinges, and was then flung open, wide.  
  
The tavern was filled with the light, to the point where it excluded everything else from the inhabitant's vision, forcing them to drop there blades and sticks and shield there eyes...those closest to the door were literally driven back towards the bar, some stumbling over the furniture as they panicked, fearing this monster that they could not see.  
  
Vall, one of the more seasoned patrons, saw it all happen in front of him and yet stood firm, his heavy silver claymore still in his hands, raised and ready. An adventurer of some skill, he wasn't prepared to go out into the light without some sort of a fight. He was a professional. It was a matter of pride, he thought to himself, watching the light enter the tavern and steadily pulse its way towards him.  
  
Taking a moment to judge where the entrance of the tavern used to be before it was eradicated from his vision, he raised his weapon, yelled defiantly for what he thought was the last time, and charged his unseen foe.  
  
Suddenly, within the blink of an eye, the light faded away, and the tavern, doorway included, returned to its occupants. Standing in the middle of it, though, was a figure, clad in armour and robes.  
  
(An Ordinator!?!)  
  
That was the first and final thought that the charging Vall made before he bought his silver claymore down over his head in a clumsy yet powerful ark, the blade seemingly destined to crack through the Indoril helm that stood before him and cleave its wearer clean in two. Instead, however, the helm moved out of the way in a single, swift motion, and Vall felt the armoured boot slam into his left ankle, sending him sprawling into a cracked wooden table, smashing it apart. His blade was flung up into the air, and Vall watched it rise and spin through fading vision: Rise and spin, rise and spin, spin....fall and spin. Fall and spin...towards him. Watching it happen, he became vaguely aware that he was about to die.  
  
A hand shot and caught the blade mid-air, its tip a mere hand-span above the weary face of Vall. It hung there for a second, before it was lifted up and away from him with one hand and carried towards the bar. The bartender, fearing for his life, shrank back and considered running towards the cellar that only he knew about, and locking himself in it until the Demon had sated itself and gone away. But before he could, the figure placed the claymore onto the bar. The sudden clang it made paralysed the bartender with terror, and he dared not move at all. Looking at him...or it, rather, he noticed that its helm still glowed with that same eerie light, although now it had somehow been muted somewhat by whatever dark forces controlled it. Its glow made pale the staring faces around it, as everyone stared in awe of this....robed ordinator?  
  
Dace Capashan, realising that perhaps he should have taken off Hawks Helm a little bit sooner than he did, sighed wearily, and took off his enchanted item. It ceased to glow immediately, and his dirtied red robes and scared indoril pauldrons could now be seen clearly for the first time. Placing a single Dwemer coin in front of the bartender, Dace looked up at him and spoke.  
  
"This will cover the damage. A bottle of flin, if you would, for both myself and our head-strong defender over there."  
  
Dace turned and looked at Vall, now shakily getting back up onto his feet with the help of a few others, and then turned back towards the bartender. He grinned at him sarcastically.  
  
"Friendly little place you've got here, don't you think?"  
  
---------------------------------------------------- ---- 


	2. New Arrival, Continued

New Arrival, Continued.  
  
The grassy banks of the shore were damp to the touch, and in that nether- region that lies between night's end and day's dawn they glistened slightly, seemingly reflecting the light back towards the sky, making it look as if the world was simply a mirror for the stars and the gods within them. Dace looked up and stared at them, and wondered how something so simple ad scattered could be so pretty.  
Cool air gently washed over his face in lazy, swirling waves as the sea met the shore and lapped upon it, seemingly giving it faint, brief caresses before fading away. The small pier by which the inhabitants of Mar Salem launched there simple fishing boats now stood out against this peaceful backdrop like a jagged wound, it's crude structure of gnarled wood and course bindings somehow reminding Dace that he was no longer in the untouched wilderness on his own. He was amongst people. People like Vall.  
  
"Dace Capashan? You wished to see me, sai?"  
  
The voice was coarse; "Weather-worn", as Cerra had put it to Dace so many years ago. It was the voice of a man who had seen much of this world, but more importantly had not wished to. Still, it trembled in the breeze between him and Dace, it's slight quiver undoubtedly an echo of this man's last encounter with the person he was addressing. Smiling faintly, Dace turned towards him and beckoned him to take a seat beside him upon the bank. Vall hesitated for a moment, and then awkwardly sat down, a few feet away from the spot where Dace had pointed at. There was a weary, cautioned look in his eyes, and Dace noticed the looseness of the straps around the sword-sheath upon his back, and the swelling around his foot.  
  
"I'm sorry about your ankle. I take it is not broken, correct?  
  
A pause.  
  
"No, it is not, thankee-sai...merely sprained."  
  
"Does it hurt? Would you like me to-"  
  
"I'll live. What do you wish of me, outlander?"  
  
Dace tried to hide his annoyance at this, and knew he had failed. He considered Vall for a moment: Shorter than Dace by about a foot or so, but stockier and wider in the shoulders: A former farmhand perhaps? He looked down at Vall's hands and noticed the calluses given to him the plough and not the sword. Yes, a farmhand then. A long time ago, perhaps, however...it was easy to see that this man had seen battle of some sort, the various cuts on his hands and face healed by time but left there as pitted reminders of whatever violence this man had witnessed. He looked at that face, its scares framed by short-cropped silvery hair, saw the cunning that lied within the man's eyes as he stared back at Dace, and vaguely wondered if this man was more bandit than mercenary. His mind dismissed it: Bandits, from his experience, held few scares: One cut was often enough to lay them low. No, this man no bandit. He had courage. Either that or stupidity. Fortunately for Dace, it mattered not which one it was. Not tonight, anyway. He decided to make his offer.  
  
"I require your help, Vall Terran. The ashlands are a dangerous realm, and my knowledge of the lay of it is scant at best. And we have no time to waste by getting lost."  
  
"We? I haven't even accepted your offer yet, outlander, and already you assume I will help you."  
  
"On the contrary...I wasn't referring to yourself, I was referring to this land as a whole. There are forces afoot that wish to shatter the peace of these tranquil nights and replace them with the shrieks of the damned and the storms of chaos itself. They tell me that I have a part to play in this matter, whether it is of any import I do not know...I merely know that I must travel deep into the Ashlands and find that which must not be."  
  
"You speak in riddles. Why? I speak plain and true, and everyone understands where I stand...are you incapable of doing the same, outlander?"  
  
Dace didn't even attempt to show his contempt this time. His brow furrowed, and suddenly those eyes that seemed so placid and calm revealed a small glimpse of that intense, slightly terrifying fury that burned deep within him. Vall's right hand visibly twitched. Suddenly, he needed to scratch an itch that burned close to his left shoulder, and the hand discreetly rubbed it, lazy fingers close to the hilt of his blade. Dace decided to let a moment or two pass before continuing, but even then the irritation in his voice was plain to hear, a cruel barb tangled up amongst his otherwise calm demeanour. He decided it was better to stay with the facts on this one, and proceeded:  
  
"I require a guide, not a tutor of speachcraft, sai. No more, no less. The pay will be one hundred gold pieces a day, you buy your own provisions and gear. Again, I shall remind you that the Ashlands are dangerous, perhaps you would like to purchase a better swo-"  
  
"-no, this one will do fine for me, thank you. It is mine, it belongs to me, and no-one shall tell me what to do with it. And again, you're assuming that I have already accepted your offer. I have not, nor do I wish to. You are arrogant, conceited, and from what I can gather from that pretty little speech of yours, utterly lost and desperate for help. How do you find that, sai?"  
  
Dace sighed heavily. He hated it when he picked the smart ones.  
  
"You speak the truth, Vall. I need your help, and I need it now. I set off for the Northern Ashlands when dawn comes upon us...I am willing to pay three hundred gold pieces to make sure you are there with me when I ride out. Is that enough to dull the pain of my company?"  
  
A pause. Dace looked away and studied the horizon, and realised that dawn would be with them within the half-hour: Already he could see a white haze outline the spot where the sky met the sea, the latter reflecting it back upwards much in same way the dew upon the grass did with the starlight. Finally, Vall spoke. His voice was quiet, the coarseness suddenly gone from it, and Dace could have sworn that when he spoke it was not Vall addressing him, but Bale. Bale who fell upon the jagged rocks Dagoth Ur, and told him there paths would never cross again in this world.  
  
"Perhaps. Leave me here, Dace Capashan, I need to think. You have your journey to prepare for...if I am not by the north gate by dawn, then do not wait for me. I will not be here."  
  
Dace considered this...he was expecting an immediate answer, and once again this mercenary was frustrating his plans. He sighed again, and with a tired, deliberate motion, he stood up and brushed off the dead leaves from his robes, and looked at Vall for one last time before he left.  
  
"The dawn is almost here, Vall: If you're going to join me, savour it. We journey unto darker skies, as they say here..."  
  
And with that, he left. 


	3. New Arrival, Concluded

New Arrival, Continued.  
  
Berrial Forrest sung a morose tune this 'morn, a soft, lilting melody of still-sleepy birds of the flock and lazy crickets, just awakening from there short nightly slumber: The forest was still coming to, and would not be fully risen and alive for another hour or two perhaps, and so its song was muted, hushed, quiet. Dace listened, and felt a presence with the forest that didn't feel....right. He'd been wrong before about such "intuitions", but something deep inside of him turned, unsettling his mind and placing him on edge far more than he'd wish to admit to. The journey had only just begun, and yet he was sure that something out there had not slept with the forest these last few nights. No...it had been waiting.  
  
Waiting for him.  
  
This was why he had wished for Vall's company, and now more than ever he'd regretted being so curt with him the previous evening: Dace rode alone along the damp dirt track, his steed making light work of the uneven ground and tangles of roots, which seemingly conspired against it and cause it to fall, to the best of its ability. When dawn had fully come, there was no sight of Vall at the North gate, and his mount could not be found within the ramshackle of a stable that Mar Salem called its own. Evidently, Dace had thought, three hundred pieces of gold was not enough to sooth the rash of his company. He chuckled a little at this...the thought of a choosy mercenary was not something he'd ever thought he'd end up encountering. So Dace rode alone today. He was not unprepared for it. He listened on.  
  
-snap-  
  
His mount stopped dead, a quick tug on its reigns sending the message to it loud and clear. The sound of the twig snapping somewhere to his far left somehow caused that feeling inside him to lurch upwards, engulfing his stomach, causing it to seemingly stir and not in an entirely pleasant fashion. Dace slowly, casually leaned forward, his arm reaching out to the right-hand side of his mount's barding, inspecting it to make sure that it hadn't suddenly become loose. His weight shifted to one side of the horse.  
  
-thwip-  
  
He heard it just in time, which meant that he was able to relax his body before it tensed up of its own accord: He fell hard to his right, his body weight carrying him over and down in to the dirt as the arrow shot across his body, passing through the place where his head had been moments before and embedding itself deep within the bark of a nearby tree. The heavy, solid thud of its impact gave Dace the impression that it was made out of something more precious than wood, but the thought didn't have time to settle upon his mind: With a whinny his mount reared up to up its full height, towering over Dace as he lay sprawled across the dirt track, desperately trying to unhook his crossbow from the saddle. Terrified, its instincts took over, and its mass suddenly obscured Dace's vision of the sky above him: It was going to crush him and bolt for it.  
  
-thwip-  
  
It was never given the chance to do either: As it shifted its weight forward and came crashing down towards him, Dace heard the second arrow fly, and a fraction of a second later the horse was carried sideways to the right as it slammed into its flank, shattering the metal barding that was meant to protect it from such attacks and penetrating deep into the animal's chest. It screeched in pure agony, its entire body twisting in on itself as it lurched down and away from Dace, its body making a dulled crash as it toppled to the floor. Dace had counted five seconds in-between the first shot and the second, but the third was going to come much faster now: He'd stayed still on the ground for too long now to present a difficult shot anymore. He rolled to his right, scrambling over the still warm corpse of his mount, praying that it was enough cover and that his crossbow wasn't buried beneath its dead weight. If it was, he was as good as dead.  
  
It wasn't.  
  
-thwip-  
  
The third shot skimmed across the top of horse's flank and snagged itself on the edge of Dace's cape, which was still catching up with it's wearers movements. Dace felt something tug hard against his back, and a moment later he realised that his cape was no longer on him: He looked to his right a little and saw it attached to a tree some thirty yards past the path, its burgundy tones a beacon of colour against the bark of the forest as it fluttered slightly in the breeze. Dace turned over to his left and glanced at the shaft of the arrow that was still embedded in his cover: He took a gamble and reached over the horse, grabbing the stiff plumes and shunting the shaft out of the corpse. The arrowhead came out with it. It was made out of ebony. The knot in Dace's stomach got a little bit tighter.  
That had been four seconds, he thought: Exceedingly slow for a master marksman, but no wonder now that he knew what he was being assailed with: To notch and launch such a heavy arrow, obviously chosen for its armour- piercing qualities, was no simple or swift task. He had meant to have been killed in the first shot. The fact that he hadn't made him think that he was dealing with someone he could handle. Perhaps.  
Reaching for his crossbow, he unhooked it from the saddle and slotted its stock underneath his right arm, laying it flat across his chest. He brought his left leg up and placed his foot against its crescent, and with a grunt pushed his foot down and brought the bolt-holder up, until the chords were taught. He placed the bolt into the holder, and brought his raised knee back into cover, just in time, he thought: It's had taken four seconds to do. He'd wait for the shot to sail past where his knee was, judge the spot where it had come from, and let fly with his bolt. It was his only chance.  
  
Six seconds passed.  
  
-thwip-  
  
Dace had had his attention focused upon the spot just above his left knee, his body tensed as he readied himself to leap upwards and let loose his shot, and so he only knew of the arrows true path when he heard the crisp shriek of arrow shearing barding, bone and then...induril. Dace screamed.  
The ebony arrow had travelled straight through the corpse-cover, it's master having obviously pulled back on his bow as far as he possibly could to give it the extra power it needed to punch through four layers of resistance and still stay true to his aim. With fading vision, Dace saw the shaft sticking out oh his left arm at an ugly angle just below the shoulder. He tried to move it, and had to bite down hard on his lip to contain the shriek of pain that leapt out not just from his arm, but also the side of his chest...with a feeling that chilled his entire body, he saw that the shaft had travelled clean through his arm and pierced his torso, pinning it just below the armpit. The pain rang out through his battered body like a shrieking bell, tolling his fate to the forest. Dimly, a thought came to him from behind the shroud that was falling down over his gaze as he struggled to keep conscious: He'd like to die standing.  
Trying as best as he could to blot out the agony that exploded outwards from his arm, he began to rise. Using the stock of his crossbow as a support, Dace dragged himself to his feet: His face was awash with sweat, and he felt as if he was going to topple over if he tried to lift his crossbow, but with a hateful hiss that seethed from out behind his clenched teeth he raised it and stood tall, and rested the weapon's shaft on the crux of his useless left arm. He picked a spot, and pulled the trigger.  
  
-Clunk-thap!-  
  
The bolt sailed off into the darkness...whether that darkness was of the forest's making or his own failing mind he never found out. He heard the final arrow fly.  
  
-thwip-  
  
Dace felt something rush past his head and saw the plume of an arrow hurtle towards where he'd just fired. A second later a shriek pierced the forest, and then everything went very, very quiet. Wondering how his second assailant, who must have been behind him all along, could have missed such an easy shot, Dace slumped to his knees and fell atop the cooling flank of his dead horse. Dimly, he was aware that he was being turned over onto his side. As he stared upwards, the slightly familiar shape of Vall stood over him. His face was impassive; unreadable.  
  
"Dace, wake up. We need to get you to a healer, fast. You're dieing."  
  
A thin smile touched Dace's lips.  
  
"Followed me....all along...why?"  
  
"I'll tell you later. Come on, I can't carry you as dead weight on my own, you've got to get up and help me."  
  
"Back to....Salem?"  
  
"No.....to Ald Rhun."  
  
Memories flashed through Dace's mind: Dust-storms, skaa, dumner...everywhere. Blood-red skies and the cracked, pitted ground of a deadened land. And then all was blank. 


End file.
